


Anger: Or, the Arrival of an Acolyte

by Defira



Series: In Her Shadows [2]
Category: Star Wars: The Old Republic
Genre: Gen, Sith Academy, first blood, first kill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after Control</p>
<p>Tahrin Dara has trained for as long as she can remember in the ways of the Force. It is her destiny to be a Sith Lord- of that she is certain. But her expectations do not quite match up with reality, and life beyond the insular world of her training complex can be very overwhelming at times. And her anger, her greatest passion and weapon, may not be as useful as it first proved. </p>
<p>She has much to learn if she is to rise above the other acolytes and prove herself worthy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anger: Or, the Arrival of an Acolyte

_“When you hate yourself, you are never without a foe.”_

***

She barely feels it when they jump out of hyperspace; the ship is sleek, modern, the best that money can buy and the trip has been blessedly uneventful. The crew leave her to her own devices for the duration of the voyage, for which she is grateful; she is used to the constant rotation of staff at the villa, new faces and blank eyes, but she has no way of knowing whether or not these men and women are to be trusted. Have they been paid for their silence, or are they in the employ of her faceless masters?

She has no way of knowing for sure, and she prefers not to. 

Instead she remains in her quarters, and prepares for her arrival on Korriban. Meditation helps to calm her mind, and physical exercise helps her body remain distracted. She has much that she needs distracting from, for she will not allow herself to admit to fear. Frustration she feels, most assuredly- for above all she is angry that she was given no opportunity to assess her surroundings as they ferried her to the spaceport. No chance to determine what planet she might be on. But she will not let the fear take root in her heart, because fear is a weakness that can be exploited. She lets anger bloom deep within her instead, angry at her masters for the continued deception and angry at herself for succumbing to even the possibility of fear.

Anger, at least, grounds her. Gives her strength. Anger is the one consistency in her life.

Other emotions come and go, like the passing of the seasons. Pride she knows, when they praise her for a skill she has mastered-

_“Congratulations, girl; this is a fine blade. You have done well to craft such a weapon.”_

-and shame as well, when she does not. 

_“You held the power in your hands, and it has made a fool of you. The pain you feel is well deserved- there will be no healer for you. Let your scars serve as a reminder of your weakness. You have shamed us all.”_

Happiness she associates with success, and assumes it to be similar to the satisfaction of a job well done. Sadness is a mix of shame and fear and self-loathing; sadness means failure, that she has disappointed someone. 

With failure comes anger, with the knowledge that she should have done better. With success comes the certainty that she can do better, and simply did not. 

Anger is a constant. Anger is her power.

The room, _her room_ , is sparse and contains little to hold her attention. A bed, a tiny yet functional wash room, smooth metal walls that hum ever so slightly with the power of the engines; no decorations, no splashes of colour, not even a table top or desk. She is grateful for the severity of it, for it provides no distractions. It gives her time to prepare, time to sink deep into her thoughts and harness her power. 

_Anger is her power._

She takes a slow breath, and sinks deeper. Loses herself in it.

_Anger and self-loathing are intertwined, entwined, wrapped around each other, the loathing so fierce and so strong that it would topple empires, raze cities, slay millions. These are things they want of her; these are things that would please them. She does not know what to feel about such ambitions, and despises herself for her weakness, for her inability to see their grand plan. There is so much hate, so vast and unending. The universe itself cannot compare to-_

She blinks, distracted from her meditations by the slight shudder of the ship as the immense speeds bleed off, as they slow in the approach to orbit. She rolls her shoulders, feeling the ache in her temples that whispers she went too deep yet again.

The pursuit of perfection is treacherous.

But perfection is all she will accept, and nothing more. Perfection is what they trained her for; whoever they may be. There is always weakness. Always a way to be faster, to be stronger, to be the best. There is always a moment when she fails, when she falters, when she slips and is proved to be the failure she is.

From failure, comes anger. Anger is her constant. Her power. 

When the airlock is disengaged and the seals hiss at the release of pressure, she stands like a stone, her face like a mask. The cold, dry air of Korriban rushes in through the breach, and she inhales deeply, cataloguing the new flavours in that first rush. 

It is terrifyingly overwhelming. 

She has played this moment through a million times in her head on the journey over- _Korriban, Outer Rim Territories, seven moons, twenty eight standard hours in a day_ \- and through the wild bombardment of new sensations she tries to index it all. The more immediate scents of fuel and oil and steel belong to the tiny space port. The heavier, earthier smells belong to the red sands of the ancient world. It is not as loud as one would expect a space port to be- they are not in Dreshdae after all, but have come straight to the Academy. This then must be a private landing field. 

Dust blows up and into her face as the door heaves down, mechanical hinges whining at the increased gravity. She blinks, but does not lift a hand to shield her eyes; better that she appear unmoved, unaffected. There are two of the crew standing either side of her- guardians? Or watchers to make sure she disembarks as required? -, and she nods tersely to them as she steps out into the cold afternoon sun. 

If she does not take that first step, she fears she will collapse under the assault of new information. She must move, or she will fail.

There is a single figure standing in the shadows of the tiny spaceport, watching her approach with an air of impatience. She is cataloguing yet again as she nears, instincts kicking in. _Male, Force sensitive, imperial rank of Overseer, first class, approximately forty standard years old_. Before she has even drawn close, he calls “You are the acolyte?” It seems a vague question, and he doesn’t seem to expect an answer, because he is launching into the rest of the conversation without her input. His accent suggests a period of time spent on Dromund Kaas. “Come come, do not dawdle. We have much to achieve, and not much time to achieve it in.”

“Are you Overseer Tremel?” 

He appears taken aback by her boldness. “What? Of course I am- who else would you expect to be here waiting for you?” He waves a hand irritably. “We’ve no time for foolish questions. We must begin your training immediately, to see how far behind you are.”

She bristles at the implication that she is lacking. Anger begins to bubble in her veins. “I am certain-”

“You are certain of _nothing_ ,” he snaps, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. He likes to talk with his hands, a fact she notes and tucks away for future analysis. He lacks restraint. “You will begin by wielding a weapon worthy of a Sith; you are to go alone into the Valley of the Dark Lords and fetch the blade of Ajunta Pall from his tomb. It is a travesty for such a weapon to lie unused, and if you are to command the respect and fear of the galaxy, such a blade would be fitting indeed.”

She falters, surprised. “Apologies, Overseer, but why do I require a new blade?” She is comfortable with her own, the handle well-worn and familiar. She does not question the logic of his command- it is indeed a foolish waste for such a powerful weapon to lie dormant and dusty when it could do so much good in the hands of a true master. But surely if time is of the essence, there are more practical tasks for her to undertake than grave robbing?

“ _Because I deem it so!_ ” She does not flinch in the face of his anger; she has learned better than that in the many years she has been in training. She lowers her head respectfully, acquiescing to his fury; she has disappointed him, as she expected. But she notes his impatience, the way he jumps so quickly to anger and frustration. His control is lacking, a curiosity. “Do you seek to question me further, acolyte? For I can ensure that your fate is nothing more than a slow and wretched death, your bones picked over by scavengers in the desert, if that is what you desire.”

She straightens, knowing better than to question a superior but determined not to appear weak. “Of course not, Overseer. I shall fetch the blade with all haste.”

“Very good,” he says impatiently, sounding anything but pleased. A speeder pulls in behind them, and he marches towards it. “Join me at the Academy when you are done. I shall make sure your lodgings are prepared.”

And then he is gone, the speeder engine roaring as it launches into the pale pink sky and in the direction of the far off cliffs on the other side of the valley. She is alone, utterly alone for the first time in her life- and on an alien planet too-, and she feels a tremor of uncertainty pass through her. 

She despises herself for such a weakness, disgust seething through her, and with her strength resolved she marches to the edge of the terrace, pausing at the dusty stairs that lead down to the endless red sand. There is so much to take in, the bewildering assault of colours and scents and the way the gravity tugs at her limbs and makes her feel unwieldy and inept. 

She stands and stares out over the valley, noting the familiar figures carved into the cliff-face. Ancient masters of the craft, the first and most true of the Sith Lords- they who defied the Jedi tyranny and forged a new path, a more powerful path, and founded an empire greater than the Jedi scum could ever envision. Magnificent tombs rise up from the valley floor, mausoleums hewn from the red rock of the planet, slabs of stone so large that they could only have been shifted into place by Force users. It is a magnificent tribute to those who came before.

Pride fills her, and determination. The way is clear, her instructions simple- retrieve the ancient blade to continue her training. She belongs here, amongst these eternal warriors and guardians of the Force. Never has she felt such certainty before. 

Shoulders straight, she descends the stairs quickly and draws her blade.

Her destiny is waiting.

***

The valley floor is easy enough. The k’lor’slugs lurch towards her, slavering and screeching, tongues flailing and teeth gnashing, and she dispatches them with ease. Her blade is perfect in her hand, singing sweetly as it spills blood and pus and gore, slicing through the exoskeletons as if they are naught but brittle paper. 

The tomb itself is easy too- it yawns open, the seals long since gone. More k’lor’slugs to slay, their bodies falling atop the piles of cracked bones of their victims. It disgusts her, to see such noble houses of the dead defiled in such a manner, but that is the way of things. She can feel the power in the air, the Force imbued into each and every stone- it is easy to see why scavengers would be drawn to such a place. 

She wrinkles her nose and continues.

The k’lor’slugs are not the only scavengers making their home in the tombs, however, and as she rounds a corner she is somewhat perplexed to find a blaster shoved into her face. Blinking mildly, she looks past the weapon and up the arm to the wielder, a pimply faced young man who could scarcely be older than her. His hair is lank against his scalp, and his face is fixed in a sneer.

“’ere now, love, you clear out,” he says derisively. His condescending tone is more amusing than irritating. “This ‘ere is private property.”

“This is the tomb of Ajunta Pall, Dark Lord of the Sith. Unless you are he, you have no business here.”

He chuckles, his expression suggesting that he thinks her addled. _Dreshdae accent, poor hygiene, diet lacking in protein. Favours left knee._ “That’s fancy talk for a pretty little girl,” he says, leering at her. Behind him, she notes others similarly armed. _Two with vibroblades, three with blasters_. “Suppose I am Ajunta Pall. What’s a pretty little thing like you gonna do about it?”

She leans away from him, his smell unbearable. “You are not Ajunta Pall,” she says calmly, noting the way the others reach for their belts slowly. “I suggest you consider removing yourself from my path.”

His laugh is incredulous, and he glances over his shoulder to call to his friends. “Get a load of this,” is what he means to say, but he never finishes the statement. She rips her lightsaber from her belt and skewers him, using his body as a shield to deflect the first volley of blaster fire, then shoving him to the side and vaulting over the top of his body. 

The others are just as pitiful and hardly worthy of her time. She has the movements committed to memory, a dance of violence and beauty that they cannot think to match. She is hardly panting when the last one falls, the exertion barely noticeable. 

Tahrin stops.

The tomb is hardly silent- the wind howls through the valley, winding through the empty corridors and through the gaps in the stone. It sounds like an enraged beast, feral and wild. There is a skittering sound, sibilant and unpleasant, proof that the k’lor’slugs have infested deep into the tomb. 

But she is alone, and the scavengers are dead because of her. 

They are dead, the life gone from them. She stands frozen in the midst of their bodies, staring at the way their eyes stare like glass at the ceiling, the way their mouths hang slack and surprised. A lightsaber is an elegant weapon, and kills without blood- for the most part they could be sleeping, if one did not look too closely at the burns on their clothing. 

There is no blood. No open declaration of violence. And yet they are dead, every single one of them dead- and by her hand. 

She has never taken a life before. They have trained her for it every day of her life, for as long as she can remember. Now it is done, the first test of her training and she feels… something. She does not want to say horror. She refuses to admit to fear. But these people are dead by her actions, where moments earlier they laughed and joked and breathed the fetid air of the tombs, unaware that she was their doom. 

The laser snarls as she deactivates her lightsaber, her hand shaking as she reattaches it to her belt. Death is just another part of life. With every death, she becomes more powerful. That was what they taught her.

Hands shaking, she continues into the tomb.

***

She retrieves the lightsaber. It should feel more monumental, really, holding the blade of one of the greatest Dark Lords of all time. But she stares instead at her own blade, the one she crafted with her own two hands, the one that helped her to take her first life. Behind her lies a path of death and violence, and the great warblade will still be clean by the time she arrives at the Academy. It seems a betrayal to her own blade, almost, and she hesitates between the two.

And then she realises that she is growing maudlin over a mere tool, and scowls as she drops it. It echoes hollowly as it falls in the rubble beside the shrine. 

She does not look back. 

The Overseer does not deign to see her upon her arrival hours later, another insult that she adds to the tally in her head. Instead a cowering servant leads her to her quarters, her home for the immediate future. Everywhere there is noise and bustle- the Academy is hardly crowded, but she is not used to so many people. She feels on edge, high strung, ready to attack at any moment.

She is not pleased at the news she must share her living quarters with other acolytes.

There are three other girls- young women, really- present when she enters the room, and their conversation stops dead. Two of them are human, and one has the distinctive colouring and facial features of a Pureblood. The human closest to her is lacking an eye, a metallic monstrosity in its place. _Weakness_ , her instincts whisper, as she scans the others for similar advantages.

“So you’re the new one Tremel brought in, eh?” says one of the humans; not the cyborg. Her voice grates, an abhorrent twang that lacks subtlety. _Nar Shaddaa, refugee sector. Elements of Illodian inflection still present; possible second generation refugee._ “All fancy and what not?”

She ignores her, and says instead “Which is to be my bed?”

The cyborg rolls her eye- the effect is much less effective with only the one- and the other human hisses at her. Like an animal; how pitiful. “Rude much, bitch?”

“I am not here to make friends,” Tahrin says coldly, deducing what bed is yet unoccupied and making her way towards it.

“None of us are,” the Pureblood says.

“You from the Academy on Dromund Kaas?” The human is relentless. “I don’t remember seeing you at the camps on Ziost.”

Is she from Ziost? She could be; she pulls up what she recalls about Ziost. _Dry, cold, similar terrain and atmosphere to Korriban, heavily deforested._ She has lived a life of rain, and mud, and cold. Ziost is certainly a possibility in an endless list.

“… broody silences?” the cyborg is saying. Tahrin shakes herself mentally; she hasn’t heard a word. “Do you have anything at all to say?”

She sets her bag on her bed, her meagre collection of belongings. Nothing personal, nothing to define who she is. She defines herself. “No,” she says simply, “only that you would be wise not to anger me.”

“Oh, we’ve got a comedian,” drawls the pureblood. “A Sith acolyte making grandiose threats about getting angry? How very original.”

Tahrin curls her fingers around the strap of her bag, anger sliding quietly and deliciously through her like wine. She knows she may not kill them. 

She knows there are exceptions to the rule.

“I am not here to be original,” she says coolly. 

She is here to be a Sith Lord.


End file.
